


Lucky Me

by Alyssa_bird



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Notting Hill, M/M, Notting Hill AU, Sherlock AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 22:23:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2405066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alyssa_bird/pseuds/Alyssa_bird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course I read the papers and watched the news and thought he was, well, brilliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky Me

Of course I read the papers and watch the news and think he's, well, brilliant. 

The famous consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. Can't look at a newspaper or gossip magazine without seeing his face somewhere on the cover. To me, he seems like a super hero, he helps the helpless. He fights, no, sorry, he doesn't fight crime, he solves it. Every other week I read about another unsolvable case he managed to figure out in two days. Incredible, really. 

But, like super heroes, it feels as though he lives in different world than I do. Although we both live in London, it feels as if he lives millions and millions of worlds away. He lives in a world with villains and adventure and mystery. I live in a quiet world. An ordinary world. A world that doesn't get written about in the papers. 

Smack dab in the middle of London, in a small village, is my quiet little world. 

I have a tiny flat with a great big red door which I had shared with my girlfriend, Mary, for three years, that is, until she she left me for a man who looked exactly like Hugh Grant. After Mary left, I replaced her with a flatmate, Mike, who teaches at university. Divorced twice and had gained a considerable amount of weight due to the fact he couldn't hold down a woman.

Then, there's me. John. John Watson. Too old, too boring, and too short. I own a book store in the village, which, admittedly, doesn't sell too many. The only people who keep me in business are the elderly and hipsters. 

"John!" I hear Mike call from upstairs. "John!"

"In the kitchen!" I yell back.

I turn away from my toast just in time to see Mike clamoring down the stairs. His face is red and he was panting slightly. 

"I have a date tonight, which shirt?" 

He holds up two long-sleeved button ups, one checkered and green, the other a deep purple, both hideous. I grimace.

"Oh, God. Mike. We talked about those shirts. They're terrible," I take a sip of my coffee. "Wear that dark blue one. The one you wore to the Christmas party." 

Mike nods. "Right, you're right. That one's good. I got laid the last time I wrote that shirt. Genius."

"Right. I'm off to work, good luck on your date," I put my mug in the sink. "And wash the dishes! I did them last time!" 

And so it was to be another colorless Thursday, I walk the thousand yards from my flat to my shop, unaware that soon my world wasn't going to be so quiet anymore. 

...

I sit at the register, reading the paper like I always do when it's a slow day at the shop, which turns out is everyday. 

A scruffy looking man walks in, bringing with him a harsh breeze of cold air. He gives a curt nod before making his way over to the science fiction section. I go back to my paper, however, the feel of the outside wind takes my attention again as I stare at another man entering my shop. 

Two people coming in on their own accord? I am on a roll.

The second man is far from scruffy. He has a long coat on with the collar pulled up, obscuring his face from view. The only thing that is visible are his eyes, they locked on mine for a moment, they are the type of color you simply cannot put a name to. The man gives a quick nod of recognition before turning his attention to the mystery/suspense section. 

I watch out of the corner of my eye as he flips through numerous books, giving them a quick scan before putting them back and moving on to the next. After doing this for a while, he must have found what he was looking for because he then snatched a book from the self and all but buried his nose in it, I recognize the cover.

"You know," I call out. "That book you're holding there is awful. Wouldn't waste my money on it if I were you."

The man finally turns so that I could see his face full on, his eyebrows raised, he smiles at me. Suddenly, the man looks very familiar, but I can't place where I know him from.

"If you like mystery novels or detective stories, you should read anything written by Christopher Lee, he's superb," 

"Ah, thank you, but this," He waves the book in hand. "Is exactly what I'm looking for."

The man walks over to me and places the book on the counter, I can't help but stare as he fumbles with his wallet. Then, it hits me. Christ, is Sherlock Holmes in my book shop buying cheap and poorly written mystery novels? 

No one is ever going to believe me.

As he is about to pull out his card, he stops and shoots a quick glance towards the scruffy man still browsing. He clears his throat. 

"Excuse me," He says quietly. "But I believe that man over there has several comic books stuffed down his trousers."

"What?" I lean over the counter, the man is casually flipping through a travel magazine now. "Did you see him do it?"

"No, but look at the awkward way he's standing, he putting all his weight on one leg." 

I bite my lip. "Excuse me!" 

The scruffy man turns around.

"Sorry to bother, but, do you happen to have comic books stashed in your trousers?"

"Er, no....?" He says slowly. 

"Hmm, alright but my friend here says you do so how about this: I'm going to phone the police, if they turn up and you don't have comic books in you trousers than I owe you a huge apology." 

I pull out my mobile. 

"Wait," The scruffy man yells. "What if....what if I were to have comic books down my trousers?"

"You can buy them. Or you can just pull them out, wipe 'em off, and put them on the counter here." I pat the space near the register. 

Thoroughly embarrassed, the man eventually pulls out not one, not two, not three, but four graphic novels from his trousers! Of course he doesn't end up buying them.

After the scruffy man leaves, Sherlock slides his book across the counter, "How much?"

I smile. "You know what? You just saved me from theft, it's on the house."

"Oh, no I couldn't," 

"I insist, besides, I wouldn't make you pay actual money for a book that awful."

"Well, thank you," 

I can't help myself. I blurt out: "I'm also a huge fan. This was, um, really super cool to meet you!"

Really super cool? 

I said that. I actually said that. To Sherlock Holmes. 

My face feels burning hot as I bag his book and hand it to him. 

He smiles at me. "It was nice to meet you too, have a good day."

He is halfway out of the door before he turns around to say, "You know, there are two types of fans,"

I swallow. "Really?"

"There's type A: Catch Me Before I Kill Again,"

I lean against the counter and fold my arms. "And what's type B?"

He cocks one eyebrow. "My Bedroom is just a Taxi Cab Away." 

And with a twirl of his coat, he's gone. 

Sherlock Holmes has just saved me from petty theft. Sherlock Holmes may or may have not just flirted with me. 

Absolutely nobody is going to believe me.


End file.
